


Wednesdays

by littlefrog1025



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Feels, Future Fic, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mating Bond, POV Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 14:07:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2814743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlefrog1025/pseuds/littlefrog1025
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All of Stiles' major romantic, life-changing events seem to occur on a Wednesday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wednesdays

* * *

It was on a Wednesday. His father was working Parrish’s late shift. The deputy called out sick. Malia came over to watch Star Wars with him, but they spent most of the film kissing. Then she slid her hand into his jeans and smiled wickedly at him.

He had to go upstairs for condoms. He flicked on the light and the shadow by his open window became dark, angry eyebrows above intense, green eyes.

“What are you doing here?”

Derek crossed the room and stood close to him. “Break up with Malia.”

“What?”

“Break up with Malia. Now,” he said low, with a growl behind it.

He should have asked Derek who he thought he was to make such a demand. He should have told Derek that he’s not the Alpha anymore, and even if he were, he still wouldn’t listen to him. He should have told Derek he loved Malia and wanted to be with her. He should have told Derek to leave and go home. There were a million and one things he should have said, should have done, but he didn’t.

What he did do was squeak out a compliant, “Okay,” and watched Derek fall back out the window.

He left the condoms in the nightstand, and then went downstairs to break up with the coyote. Like Derek told him to.

 

* * *

It was on Friday that Scott had asked. He told him how Malia had cried and begged and promised to be different, better. It wasn’t her, and she could never be the kind of different he wanted. The kind that held an intensity, a love, in his chest so fierce it would punch through walls to save his sister and his beta. But he didn’t tell her that. Or Scott. Instead he explained the bruise on his cheek as Malia’s final reaction to their break up, citing it as another (false) reason he ended their relationship.

 

* * *

It was on Sunday when his father asked. He gave his dad a little more truth than he did Scott, “I loved her, but wasn’t in love with her.” John nods and accepts said answer as truth with a sigh and a grumble about “teenagers and their exaggerated expectations,” as he closed the door and headed to work.

 

* * *

It was next Wednesday when he woke up in the middle of the night. He left the window open. Derek sat on the end of his bed.

“I broke up with her.”  
“I know.”

Derek stood and took off his leather jacket. Then his shoes. Then his shirt. He took off everything and stood naked and glorious in front of Stiles.

Stiles felt like he should have been terrified. He felt like he should have been shaking and nervous, screaming with excitement and fear.

He wasn’t. He was calm, like gentle waves licking the shore. Like he’d seen Derek naked and burning with want everyday. Maybe he had, and just never noticed until then. Maybe Derek had always exposed himself to Stiles, but Stiles couldn’t see what he had so silently been offering the whole time, so he had to say it. He had to say it with demands of heartache for teenage were-girls. He had to say it by undressing in the middle of the night, then climbing into the bed with him. He had to say it with soft kisses along Stiles jawline and under his chin, down his neck and at his fingertips. He said it with rough hands running smoothly along pale skin that scorched like fire under them. He said it with a wet mouth wrapped around Stiles’ cock, bringing the younger man so close to the edge he drew blood from biting back a moan he couldn’t let his father hear.

Derek said it all with his hard length piercing through Stiles’ slick, pink hole, burning, and aching, but so damn good.

“Derek… I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

He said it with words. And it became the only words Stiles ever wanted to hear.

 

* * *

It was Thursday, at the pack meeting when Scott said he smelled like Derek, and Stiles shrugged, and then went back to making sandwiches with Kira.

Stiles watched Scott pull Derek aside to whisper intensely at the former Alpha. Derek remained calmed, but his large arms were folded across his broad chest.

Stiles put the plate of sandwiches on Derek’s coffee table. Derek called him over. He walked to the expansive window where Derek and Scott stood.

“Scott thinks what’s going on between us is his business. I disagree. Tell Scott what you think.”

Stiles took Derek’s hand and entwined their fingers. “I think Beacon Hills has a witch problem we need to figure out.” Stiles lead Derek to the couch and missed the smug grin the dark-haired man gave his best friend.

Stiles practically sat in Derek’s lap, his head on his shoulder. Lydia’s eyes grew wide and she mouthed, “Details. Later,” to him. Stiles winked at her, and was grateful her reaction was better than Scott’s had been.

 

* * *

It was Saturday when the sheriff found out. Scott told. The sheriff liked Derek, but was non too happy about Stiles sneaking around with a man 6 years older than him. He seemed more concerned with Derek’s age than him being male. And a werewolf.

 

* * *

It was Sunday when Stiles told Derek the sheriff demanded the werewolf be a fixture in their house every Friday night for dinner if he wished to continue seeing Stiles.

 

* * *

It was Monday when Malia found out. She slapped him in the hallway after Econ ended and the bell rung, crowding the halls with nosy teenagers enjoying the show. Lydia took him home after lacrosse practice. He stayed the night at her house and they spent all night talking about Derek, Parrish, and the joys and pitfalls of werewolf sex.

 

* * *

It was Wednesday when he and Scott finally stopped avoiding each other and spoke. Scott apologized. Stiles forgave. They ate lunch outside and Scott let Stiles gab on about being in love with Derek. He figured Scott believed he earned it, having listened to Scott ramble into soliloquies about Allison in the past, now Kira.

 

* * *

On Friday, Derek came over for dinner with a bottle of wine he and the sheriff shared, allowing Stiles only half a glass because he begged and didn’t have school the next day. It was during dessert that John laid out ground rules for them to follow about their budding relationship, which included a neon sign of ‘NO SLEEPOVERS’, followed by a frightening threat made to Derek about hurting the teenage boy, in any way, shape, or form.

Derek squeezed Stiles’ hand and promised to never break Stiles’ fragile heart.

 

* * *

Stiles got the letter on a Monday. He was accepted to Princeton University. Full ride. His top tier school.

His father took the letter and showed it to everyone in town.

Stiles felt sick, and threw up all afternoon.

 

* * *

It was Wednesday when he woke up in the middle of the night. Derek sat on the edge of his bed. “I want you to go.”

“No.”

“You can’t give that up.”

“Watch me.”

“Go. Please. I want you to.”

“You just think I should, but you don’t really want me to.”

“Of course not. If I could lock you away and keep you only for me, I would, but I can’t. And I won’t. You should go. You deserve to go.”

Tears burned in his eyes. “What about us? Don’t you care about us?”

Derek’s hand cupped Stiles’ wet cheek. “Absolutely. And I’ll be here when you get back.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll love someone else. Someone better, and you’ll want them and forget me and it’ll kill me.”

Derek grabbed Stiles, pulling him close. He leaned in and whispered in his ear: “There is no one but you.”

Stiles kissed him desperately, and Derek fell into bed.

 

* * *

It’s a Tuesday. They’re in bed. Derek’s bed.

“I don’t like emailing. It’s impersonal. Write me letters. I want to know how you’re doing.”

“Miserable. I’ll be doing miserable because my boyfriend sent me 3,000 miles away to go to school.”

“An Ivy League school.”

“It doesn’t matter what kind of school it is. You won’t be there.”

“…I know.” Derek rolled Stiles on his stomach and kissed his bare back. His mouth traveled further south. His kisses turned into long licks of his tongue that slid between the boy’s cheeks.

“Derek… Oh, God…” Stiles keened.

Derek groaned into Stiles’ entrance, lavishing at it with filthy enjoyment as he held Stiles down by his waist when he squirmed against his mouth.

Stiles needed it. He needed to feel Derek all over his body, leaving fingerprint bruises and whispered ‘I love yous’ in his skin. He needed to take Derek’s scent with him and have it burned into his memory to keep him sane when he thought the distance between them would drive him mad.

If he knew Derek, he knew he’d do everything in his power to make sure he’d never forget.

 

* * *

It’s a Saturday. He hates parties. He doesn’t know why he wanted to be invited to them so badly in high school. They’re loud, everyone’s drunk and obnoxious, and there’s never any place to sit.

He called Derek twice and wrote him already this week. He needed to see him. To touch him, and have him hold him in his arms until he feel asleep. He hadn’t slept right in weeks. It’s gotten harder to focus in class.

Derek gave him focus, helped him concentrate. He was better than any drug, and Stiles was a junkie, missing his fix, feigning so bad he’s shaking and desperate.

He shouldn’t be here.

A blonde girl drunkenly stumbled in front of him. He helped her up. She decided to “reward” him with a sloppy kiss that tasted too much like whiskey and cigarettes. But he let her stay, because it was lips, contact, the thing he had been craving, needing, and wanting to fill the gaping hole in chest. He wanted to pretend she was Derek, to imagine she was his drug of choice, and inhale her. But her scent was all wrong and her lips weren’t soft and full and surrounded by prickly stubble.

He pushed her away and ran, dropping his stale beer cup to the floor as he sprinted all the way back to his dorm room.

 

* * *

It’s Tuesday when he calls Lydia. She was in Massachusetts at MIT. He told her about the girl at the party. She told him not to tell Derek. Ever. He complied.

 

* * *

It was Thursday and he hadn’t sleep since last week. Guilt kept him up, and regret wore him down. He hadn’t talked to Derek in days. The wolf kept calling, worrying on Stiles’ voicemail. He even wrote him an email, using Scott’s account. He signed it ‘I love you. Always. – Derek’.

Stiles threw up.

 

* * *

It was a Wednesday when Derek showed up at his dorm. He kissed the life out of Stiles before his eyes narrowed and his face scowled into stone. “When I call you, you answer, Stiles.” Stiles nodded, held him close and cried.

Derek packed him a bag and took him to his hotel room.

They made love all night and ordered room service.

Stiles sobbed when he told Derek about the girl, and begged him to forgive him. Derek held him in his arms and wiped his tears away.

“I don’t know what’s going on with me. I can’t be without you, Derek. I can’t. The last time we weren’t together a goddamn fox deamon crawled into me! Derek…”

“We’re mates. That’s why it’s hard for us to be apart.”

“But you’re fine.”

“No. No, I’m not,” he said as he stroked Stiles’ arm.

“I’m a wreck. This is killing me.”

“I know. That’s why you’re coming home.”

 

* * *

Stiles graduated CalTech with honors in the top of his class. He and Derek went out to dinner with John, Melissa, and the rest of the pack. Derek paid for the expensive meal and the four bottles of wine everyone happily drank, toasting to Stiles and his achievement. His father cried, for the third time that night, and hugged him for the millionth time, before Melissa appeared to take him back to the hotel.

The rest of the pack bought a few cases of beer and took it to the beach. They skinny dipped in the ocean, under the moonlight. Stiles and Derek floated off from them and made love in the wet sand under the pier. Stiles came three times with Derek’s name in his mouth as waves crashed over them.

Stiles wanted one last look at the campus, seeing how far he had come, before heading back home to Beacon Hills in the morning. He and Derek snuck onto the property, his school ID no longer working to let him through the gate.

They walked along the gallery of Stiles’ favorite building, Beckman Institute. He liked the archways and reflective pool in front of the 30 year old structure.

“Stiles.”

Stiles stopped walking. His clothes had dried, but his thick, chestnut hair was still damp and mussed atop his head. He smelled of ocean water, night breeze, and contentment.

Derek took Stiles’ hand into his own. “Marry me.”

Stiles smiled; a small smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“What?”

“You never ask anything. You just always tell me.”

“Do you want me to ask?”

Stiles cups Derek’s face. His thumb runs tenderly along Derek’s lips. “No. I like that you know me enough to not have to, and I can’t believe there was ever a time I used to fight against it.”

“Marry me, Stiles,” Derek says, not asking.

“Yes.”

Derek crushes their mouths together making his boy moan. Stiles held on to Derek, keeping him as close as he could, never wanting them to part. Wanting to push this moment and the feel of Derek’s lips on his inside him for as long as he can so 50 years from now how he could remember how Derek tasted, how he felt, how warm the late spring air felt on his skin, how the dimmed lights around campus made the gallery glow and bounce off Derek’s emerald eyes when he told Stiles to marry him, and how the bell tower to the church struck at midnight just a minute after he became engaged to his mate. On a Wednesday.


End file.
